Swimming with Sharks
There was a mural on the wall of my very first swim club. It depicted a teeming reef environment — coral creeping up the wall, crustaceans hiding amongst the plant life swaying in the current. Fish flew through arches in schools, chasing themselves or fleeing from the bigger fish. My favorite part of that mural was the dolphins playing near the surface. They came to life for me — I could just imagine them leaping out of the water and twisting through the seas. It was a scene of joy, but only in the right three-quarters of it.
In the middle of the wall, there was a section where the light blue hues warped into darker shades. Suspension was built into each brush stroke. The fish grew more teeth, the coral got less plentiful, and right in the top corner, there loomed a great white shark. It’s mouth was gaping open, it’s body turned sharply towards the schools of fish fleeing for the reef. I hated swimming past it. The colors were so vibrant that the shark looked like it could explode out of the wall with a flick of its tail. I was terrified that as I was swimming by, it would come to life and nip at my ankles, maybe even take off one of my feet. Every time I walked on to the pool deck, I would dread the inevitable moment where I would turn to breathe and be faced with those jaws. I wouldn’t be getting much oxygen then.
For the first few weeks I was on the team, I refused to swim past the shark. Instead, I would turn around in the middle of the pool and paddle my way back to the wall. My coach got into the habit of standing in front of the shark mural and encouraging me to swim past it if I lifted my head to turn around.
“It’s not going to hurt you, Sophie. It’s just a painting.”
Not to me, it wasn’t.
As I got used to swimming in the pool, I came up with ways to cope with my “lane buddy.” The pool was set up so that each of the six lanes ran the length of the mural. I believed that if I didn’t swim in the lane closest to the mural — and therefore closest to the shark’s jaws — my chances of being eaten diminished significantly. The shark would probably go for the people closest to it first, so I made sure never to be the nearest. If I was in any of the other five lanes, I would be okay. The odds were in my favor.
However, a few years later, I was forced to confront my fear. There was one practice in December where only four people showed up, so two of us would go in the lane closest to the mural, and the other two would go in the lane next to it. My coach was choosing which lane we went in to, and when he told me to get into the former lane, I nearly broke down in tears. It was me, and an older boy I was scared of, so I was not having a good time. Initially. I ended up swimming faster than I ever had.
Anytime I saw the light blues shifting into the dark blues, I took a deep breath and plunged my head down. I kicked harder and swung my arms faster so that I could get to the wall without breathing and having to look into the belly of the beast. When I got tired, I began turning to breathe in the direction not facing the mural — if I didn’t see it, it must not be there, right? — but I still couldn’t help myself from accelerating as I neared the wall. My coach kept commenting on how good my turns looked. I’m still not sure if he realized that the only reason I was flipping so fast was because I was scared of a painting coming alive, but I’ll take the compliment. I seriously believe the only reason my turns are as good as they are today is because of that damn shark mural and my delusional child mind.
That delusional child mind helped me a lot, though. It kept me hopeful, it kept me dreaming. By the time I was leaving that mural behind and joining a new club team, I believed I was going to be an Olympian. I believed I was going to swim at Stanford and then become a marine biologist — ironically. I believed that the most I had to be afraid of was of that shark coming alive.
Most times, big dreams come with big expectations, and big expectations come with big disappointments. When I was entering high school, I began swimming with fear again, but unlike that time with the shark mural, this fear wasn’t making me go any faster. This fear was giving me panic attacks behind the blocks, making my body shut down halfway through a race, changing my mindset slowly but surely from positive to negative. I was scared of not touching the wall in a best-time, and that, somehow, was scarier than the idea of being eaten by a shark. Even though I was terrified of that mural, the joy I got from swimming was stronger than that fear, which is why I kept going to practice, day after day. That wasn’t the case anymore.
After hundreds of hours of therapy, and starting to swim for my college team, that fear started to dissipate and the joy started to creep back in. This was fueled by the fact that my first year of college was during the pandemic, so we had no swim meets. I was just going to practice and spending time with my friends, which is what I did back at my first swim club. At the end of the year, we had an intrasquad meet where we rested, suited up, and raced a couple events. I went all best times that weekend — some of those times I beat were four years old. That was a big moment for me. I promised myself I would never let that joy fade again. It was better to swim with passion than with fear.
Before going to college, I got a shark tattooed on my hip. I got it as a testament to overcoming my mental health struggles, but I’m just now realizing the connection to that shark mural. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that after going through one of the darkest periods of my life — one filled with fear — the image I thought of to commemorate getting through that was the same image I was so scared of as a kid. I wanted the shark to represent my resilience and strength, to remind me that I can cope with anything that is thrown at me, but it has a whole new meaning now. My shark, whom I lovingly named Gilbert, also serves as a reminder to never let fear overcome happiness, to never let that childhood joy die. There is so much to be afraid of nowadays — fear of rejection, fear of disappointment, fear of things that are out of our control — but we shouldn’t let that stop us from following our passions, our hearts.
If I could have five minutes with my seven-year-old self, I would start off by telling her that she is loved and then give her a big hug and a kiss on the top of her head. Her sparkling blue eyes will look up at me in awe, and I will try not to cry. I will tell her that there are worse things than sharks, especially painted ones. My face will light up like the stars when she doesn’t believe me.
